Be Good Or Be Good At It

Say good morning to the cold bathroom floor- mouthwash tastes like a reused mojito vomit erupting from a molten core- in the sink, fermented blood starts to show from sacrament taken on Thursday night, my last supper. Judas, feel what I feel- whiskey nailed to a cross, my final fight. No more beer or tonics will make me kneel genuflected for a porcelain god- today I will rise steady on two feet, not carried by a bouncer as he plods to a dented cab in a smoky side street My dear friend, you dined silent at my side, But under your thorns I cannot hide